I spit blood at work.
I wandered off, to smoke.
I spit red.
Walked inside.
Full screen.
Blood on a napkin,
buys you five minutes.

I make your food with love.
My sweat and blood,
you savor.
Bread with your meal.
Compliments of my body.
I suggest white wine,
with your meal,
seeing as how the only red,
we have,
is being spat to the ground.

Eighty-six emotion.

Cooks yell at servers.
Servers at cooks.
Customers at servers.
None of which is justified,
but putting up with *******,
is harder to swallow,
enveloped in heat.
Cold hands filling glasses,
seems easier,
to deal with,
rather than slicing meat.
It's rare
that you can,
find people willing to battle,
the heat of the kitchen.